


Come At Me, Old Man!

by Hoodoo



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Nerf Gun Battle, Oh crap Rick means business, Short, fun & games, that escalated quickly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 05:16:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13380951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: Two combatants enter. One leaves. You vs Rick Sanchez. May god have mercy on your soul.





	Come At Me, Old Man!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saint_Rick_The_Dick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saint_Rick_The_Dick/gifts).



> from another-sanchez-slut prompt: Nerf gun battle with Rick. Good luck! The man fights dirty, and he fights to *win.*

You had no one to blame but yourself.

You were the one who started it, and now you were muddy, sweaty, bruised, and scraped . . . and still being chased. 

Who would have known a geriatric alcoholic would have that much stamina? Who would have known he was so bloody _fast?_ Who would have known he was going to pursue you to the ends of the earth? You should have realized that—with those gazelle-like legs and an ego the size of Jupiter—Rick wasn’t just going to “let it go.”

So now you were being hunted in some kind of “Most Dangerous Game” scenario.

Okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration. It was Nerf weapons.

But you’d made the first hit—bouncing the foam projectile off his left shoulder, while he was working in his garage.

You’d startled him.

You shrieked with laughter, “Come at me, old man!” and tossed another Nerf gun in his direction.

When he realized you’d soaked the foam tip in dye—and it left a red stain like he’d actually been shot—it was _on._

You shrieked again—out of sudden surprise, this time—when he exploded up and after you.

At first you darted away, taunting him, even shooting at him again but missing. But with his head down and the severe look on his face, you quickly gave up teasing and just ran.

Foam missiles flew near you. One hit the back of your upper arm. You kept running.

Which was how you’d ended up streaking through the neighborhood: over fences, through hedges, dodging around kids on bikes, tripping and scraping your knees. The stitch in your side grew to encompass your entire chest and Rick was _still_ behind you. 

Terrifyingly, he’d never said a word.

Finally, dashing around the corners of several close houses, you hunker down in some overgrown bushes. You work very hard to control your breathing. Your knees sting and tiny gnats are drawn to the beads of blood on your broken skin. Your lungs are on fire.

You grip the plastic gun so tightly it creaks. So help you you’ll shoot him in the face—there was no need to be so _mean_ about something meant to be playful!

Rick doesn’t show up. 

You lost him? You’re afraid to move. There’s no way you lost him. Rick was as competitive as . . . you can’t think of anything more competitive as Rick Sanchez to compare him to. 

Maybe he had a heart attack! 

No way are you going to go looking for him. You’ve seen enough horror movies to know what’ll happen if you do _that._

So you continue crouching and sweating. You jump at every little sound. You’re hyper alert. 

Nothing happens. 

Eventually you feel ridiculous hiding in somebody’s hedgerow. 

You creep out. 

Carefully, slowly, still on high alert, you skulk back towards the Smith’s house. You use every bit of cover, like a commando. Like a ninja! 

You’re going to get the drop on him again! Rick stands no chance against your superior skills; you’re going to nail him right in the back of his head! You’re going to aim for his bald spot! 

You’re in front of the Smith’s house now, ducked behind a car parked in the street. The garage door is open. Still no sign of Mr. Sanchez. 

If you can sneak into the house, you can lie in wait and surprise him . . . 

With one last look around and seeing no adversary, you tiptoe across the street. Hmm . . . there’s something suspiciously shiny on the sidewalk leading to the door—probably some trap Rick’s laid to alert him to your presence. Wisely, you stay off the concrete and stick to the grass. 

Sneaky, sneaky— 

The ground shifts minutely under your feet. Almost before you can react, something—what _is_ that? A _net?_ —erupts around you. 

You fling yourself away—ninja skills!—and it doesn’t close completely around you, only grazes your side. 

“Ha ha!” you yell in triumph, Rick can’t capture you, you’re invincible!—before you realize it wasn’t just an ordinary net, but also sticky, like a spider’s web. 

You’re not completely ensnared, but tangled up enough that you can’t pull away. It has your legs. You can’t stand up, you can’t run.

You’re trapped. 

He got you. You’re done. You can move one arm and your head, but what’s the use? Rick is going to beat you anyway. You just wanted to have some fun, a harmless little diversion on a boring day, and Rick is going to pelt you mercilessly with dye-tipped foam darts. You’re pathetic. 

You sob in your defeat. 

Stupid—dummy—you’d never be able to best Rick Sanchez—he concocted and set this trap and just walked right into it-- 

You hear footsteps on the driveway. It’s Rick, preparing to gloat and annihilate you, you just know it. 

You can’t stop crying. 

You wipe your free hand over your face and with blurry vision, see him hesitate. Then you hear him sigh, curse softly, and drop his raised Nerf gun before coming to your side. 

“Hey, hey, now,” he says, his gravelly voice something close to soothing. “I didn’t mean—it’ll be okay, just need to sprinkle cornstarch on the threads, they’ll lose their stickiness and then—“ 

As he comforts you, he dusts you with the cornstarch he mentioned. The web holding you loosens and pulls away. 

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m—“ he continues. 

You roar and shoot him square in the chest. 

The red dye looks especially gruesome, like an actual wound. 

“Kill shot!” you cry in victory. “I win!” 

He’s off balance from bending over you; the soft impact of the dart is enough to make him stumble and sit back, hard, on the ground.

“You fell victim to one of the classic blunders!” you crow, scuttling over to him while he looks dazed. “The first is never get involved in a land war in Asia! The second, although less well known, is never go up against me when death is on the line!” 

Rick shakes his head. You don’t know if it’s because of the reference, or because he lost. 

You grin, and he finally focuses on your ecstatic face. 

“Inconceivable,” he says, and you kiss him soundly on the mouth. 

_fin_


End file.
